


Always You

by lemonsorbae



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Crushes, Drunk Sex, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, One Night Stands, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/pseuds/lemonsorbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond wants Q. But for how long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [literaryoblivion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryoblivion/gifts).



> For Freck. Happy Christmas, love. <3  
> This is my first time writing this pairing. Forgive my OOC-ness. I'm learning.  
> Thank you to [Wendy](http://www.poorbeautifuldean.tumblr.com) & [Onja](http://www.appleblossomdean.tumblr.com) for the beta.  
> [tumblr link](http://herowords.tumblr.com/post/136563740011/always-you)

“ _Oh my God_.” Q raises his oversized mug until it rests in front of his face, revealing nothing but his eyes, and sinks lower in his chair. He wills himself not to look, but finds his gaze drifting towards the door despite himself.

_Dammit._

Moneypenny frowns and pops a bite of her sticky bun into her mouth. “What’s got into you?”

“He’s back,” Q hisses, and when Moneypenny’s frown deepens, Q rolls his eyes. “ _Bond_.” He eyes the front counter where Bond’s charcoal-suited back is to them. The barista helping him is blushing, her smile wide and flirtatious, and Q chances blowing his cover by taking an angry sip of his Earl Grey.

“We can’t come here anymore,” he says.

“You’re being dramatic,” Moneypenny counters. “It’s Costa Coffee, everyone comes here. Apparently even _the_ James Bond.” The curve of her lips is coy, drawing a scowl from Q.

“This was supposed to be a haven,” Q grumbles. And it had been; until two weeks prior when a mission - Bond’s mission - had come a hair too close to being fatal. With one hastily made decision Q had almost lost an agent.

Bond. He’d almost lost Bond.

Q isn’t sure what it is about the double-oh that makes his chest feel tight and his middle feel like an aviary, but he’s felt it since that day in the gallery with talk of ships and exploding pens, and it hasn’t abated since. Not to mention no one else has made him feel that way in a very, very long time.

After the mission Q was wound like thread on a spool for days. He’d picked Bond up from the airport himself, face pale and fingers curled into fists. Bond’s smirk had been the most beautiful sight he’d seen that night, probably the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time, actually, and with adrenaline and relief coursing through him he’d grabbed the lapels of Bond’s coat and dragged him in until he was kissing the infuriating expression off the agent’s face.

Things had only gone downhill  from there. Tequila - far too much tequila - and Bond saying all the right things, and the next morning Q had slipped out from beneath Bond’s arm, strong and warm, and shame-walked right out of his own flat. It was one of the lower points in Q’s life, he was not the type to love and leave, but judging by prior observation, Bond was, and Q was not ready for that type of heartbreak, so he did the breaking himself.

It was sure to be easier that way, right?

The odd thing about it all though, was that after that night it was like something had been  ignited in Bond. He went from being casually coquettish to incessantly present, showing up around every corner, finding reasons to visit Q branch far more often than any of the other agents, and now - apparently - needing his daily caffeine fix from the very same place Q had been frequenting for going on six months now.

And just like that, Q’s personal sanctuary was tarnished by ice-blue eyes and a smile too irresistible for its own good.

“Well, don’t look now,” Moneypenny mutters, “but he’s coming this way.”

Q is drawn from his reverie to find Bond waltzing towards them with a tall to-go cup of coffee in hand and that all-too-familiar spark in his eyes. Q slips further down in his chair.

Moneypenny chews quietly and her eyes sparkle knowingly. Infuriating, the lot of them.

“Afternoon, Miss Moneypenny, Q.” Bond looms over them, casting a shadow across the table just as neatly cut as the man it belongs to.

“Bond,” Q grumbles back, not looking up. He stares into his mug at the flat orange liquid therein. It’s far more interesting than looking at Bond, or at least Q wants it to seem that way.

“What brings you in?” Moneypenny asks, patting the empty seat between her and Q. Q shouldn't be surprised by the traitorous act, Eve had shot Bond off the top of a moving train after all, but it still sends annoyance bubbling through his veins. He frowns at the faux wood  table top, and Bond smiles brilliantly.

“Coffee,” he states and holds up his cup, as if the statement needs evidential proof.

“Doesn't Six have coffee?” Q bites out, looking up for the first time since Bond joined them.

Bond’s smile doesn’t falter, the _bastard_ , and his eyes find Q’s, perfect, and clear, and smirking. “I prefer the view here,” he says, winking at Q.

Moneypenny snorts into her cup and heat settles high on Q’s cheeks. He wishes for nothing more than to become one with the wooden chair he’s perched on, disappearing entirely.

Life as a chair wouldn't be so bad, he reasons.

“And besides, I'm hiding from Mallory. I think he intends to send me to Paris.”

“What's wrong with Paris?” Eve wonders.

Bond finally, _finally_ drops Q’s gaze to look at Moneypenny. Q suppresses a shiver and goes for another swig of his tea. It’s growing cold.

“Nothing,” Bond replies, “but I just got back. I’d like a moment to breathe.”

“You’ve been breathing for two weeks, Bond, perhaps another mission would do you well.” As soon as Q’s said the words he regrets them, but he can’t get them back now.

A flicker of something - maybe hurt - crosses Bond’s expression but his smile never falters. “Maybe you’re right,” he agrees. “I need something to put my back into.”

Q shakes his head, almost smiles even, but catches himself just in time. Smiling will only encourage Bond, and Q does not want to perpetuate any further gestures Bond may interpret as _invitations_. No, Bond is better on one side of the fence, with Q on the other.

*

Bond does end up in France. It’s a short trip, four days from start to finish, but his quips over the comm are just as inappropriately flirtatious as ever and Q spends half the mission with his mouth pulled into a thin line, holding back barbed retorts, and the other half staring furiously at his screen in the hope of hiding his blush from the other members of Q branch.

When all is said and done, Q returns to his flat, turns on a record - something old and blues-y - pours himself a glass of Faugères, and slips into a bath full of bubbles because damn it , he earned it. He does his best not to think of Bond or the way the other man makes him feel, and fails miserably.

The next morning there’s a small brass Eiffel tower on his desk. With it is a plain note card. _From your Secret Admirer_ is etched in a handwriting Q knows all too well. He’s still studying the trinket when a light knock sounds on his open door.

“Come in,” he mutters, without looking up.

“That’s new.”

Q’s head snaps up to find Bond standing at his desk, suit a deep blue, amplifying the brightness of his eyes, and his tie a simple grey number. He’s all sleek lines, _Sex in a Suit_ , Q had once admitted drunkenly to Moneypenny, and Q’s stomach twists perfidiously.

“Yes,” Q says. “A gift. Apparently, I have a secret admirer.”

Bond’s eyes flash with amusement. “Do you, now?”

“Well, that’s what the card said,” Q explains, holding it up for Bond to see. “But seeing as it was written in your handwriting and you’re the only person in this building who’s been to Paris in the last several weeks, I’d wager the admiration - if it can be called that at all - isn’t a secret.”

Bond smiles. “You’re no fun,” he says, lowering himself into one of the chairs before Q’s desk. The leather squeaks as he sits, and moulds to his posture. “Perhaps I should have brought you back a bottle of tequila instead.” He winks and Q’s fingers quiver around the card still in his grasp.

“Out,” Q grumbles. “I’ve work to do.”

Bond nods. “I understand,” he says. “I’m too distracting.”

“You’re too _something_ ,” Q retorts. Bond’s smile grows into a grin and he stands, starts for the door.

“Missed you while I was away,” he offers from across the room. His voice is quiet, void of his usual taunting tone, and Q looks up to see Bond retreating from the office.

Q’s fingers trail over the new fixture on his desk, the piece delicate, picturesque. “And I, you,” he mutters.

*

The next week comes with greying, bulbous clouds that empty themselves on the city and don’t let up for days. The Tube is a nightmare - clogged with soggy Londoners, dripping and cold, sitting miserably in puddles from passengers  past - and by the time Q arrives at MI6, all he wants is to sink into a cup of something hot and herbally.

Of course directly upon arrival he's summoned into Mallory’s office for an impromptu expenses meeting. It drags on for longer than necessary and blurs from expenses into beta testing new equipment for the double-ohs, and Q sits shivering in his soaked-through anorak and Doc Martens.

When he and the rest of the senior staff are released, Q gathers his things and practically dashes from the room, running smack dab into a double-oh as he crosses the threshold.

“Apologies,” Q offers, blinking into Bond’s light blue eyes. Bond’s hand is warm at the small of his back where he caught Q when he wavered on his feet from the impact. It takes everything Q has not to move into the touch and he shudders inwardly, remembering what it feels like to have Bond’s hands sprawled wide on his hips, his thighs, to feel the man’s thumbs pressing shallow bruises into Q’s skin as he-

“Alright?” Bond asks, small smile curving on his lips.

Q licks his lips, draws in a breath, and nods. “Alright,” he breathes.

“You're sopping,” Bond states. He pulls his hand away, slowly, and Q pushes his glasses further up on his nose, taking in the crow’s feet like starbursts around Bond’s eyes and the chiseled cut of his jaw. He’d cradled that jaw in his hands as they’d kissed, felt it click when Q had pressed his lips to Bond’s closed eyelids, his forehead, and cheekbones.

“It's raining,” Q points out.

Bond nods. “I noticed.”

Silence plumes between them, heavy and purposeful like smoke spilling out of a chimney, black, and thick, and rising. Q feels it curl around his ankles, his wrists, and he can't look away; can't move.

Bond watches him blink, once, twice. “Your eyes,” Bond finally says. “I couldn’t place them before, but now I see. They’re like the ocean.”

Q’s whole body warms. “Um-”

“Bond!” It's Tanner. He's smiling, coming towards them, and the moment between Bond and Q - whatever it held - slips away.

“Yes, well. I um-” Q adjusts his glasses again, shifts on his feet. “Mallory’s asking after a report I've not started yet and I haven't even had my first cuppa today so, I should… Be going.”

Bond smiles, nods. “Good to see you, Q.”

“Quite,” Q answers. He studies Bond for a moment more, then retreats towards Q branch, the weight  of Bond’s stare heavy on his back.

Q is deterred several more times before he reaches his office for the first time that morning. Eve intersects him as he passes her office, asking after lunch plans; several people in Q branch bombard him with questions, and by the time he reaches his office he feels waterlogged and irritable.

When Q pushes open the door to his office he's hit by a wall of warmth. There's a space heater going in the corner nearest his desk and his Scrabble mug is filled to the brim with what smells like lavender tea. Fragrant steam curls into the air as Q rounds his desk. Q drops into his chair, stares at the mug.

“Better drink it while it’s still hot.” Q looks up and Bond is standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, one shoulder leaning against the frame.

“Did you-”

“Secret admirer, remember?” Bond’s eyes sparkle and he lingers for only a moment more before disappearing down the hall.

Q sinks into his chair, wraps his frozen hands around the warm mug, and thinks about Bond until there’s nothing left but dregs.

*

Just days after the tea and heater incident come flowers on Q’s doorstep. They’re brightly colored and cheerful looking, a stark contrast to the watery grey sliding down the windowpanes, and one of Q’s cats - Wysiwyg - curls curiously around his feet as he carries them in.

“Out of the way, girl,” he coos at her, setting the vase next to Wysiwyg’s sister, Codec, where she’s perched on the countertop. She sniffs at the flowers, then bumps her head against Q’s hand. He gives her a light scratch behind the ears, too distracted to do much else.

He shrugs out of his coat, hanging it and his messenger bag on the coat rack by the front door, then approaches the flowers again. They’re from Bond, he knows this, but he searches for a card anyway.

When he finds one, buried in the depths of sweet smelling petals, he’s surprised to find lines of script rather than the generic words Bond had used on his first gift. Wysiwyg leaps up on the counter and climbs atop Q’s shoulders as he reads.

 _Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet!_  
How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs;  
I only ask to sit beside thy feet.  
Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes,  
Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold  
My arms about thee—scarcely dare to speak.  
And nothing seems to me so wild and bold,  
As with one kiss to touch thy blessèd cheek.  
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control  
Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat  
The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke,  
The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul  
To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note  
Hath melted in the silence that it broke.                  

“ _Tennyson_ ,” Q breathes, and he’s infinitely grateful he’s in the comfort of his own home, for the blush that steals over his cheeks is sure to be deep. Damn you, Bond, he thinks. Though the words don’t mean much when they’re thought around a smile.

Bond has already been shipped out to Croatia by the time Q arrives at MI6 the following day. He scans his emails for any notifications he may have been sent about Bond’s mission, but there aren’t any. Q frowns. He always handles Bond’s missions.

With deft fingers he dials M’s office, straightening the Eiffel tower on his desk as he waits for the other man to answer.

“Mallory,” Mallory says across the line.

“Mallory, I’m inquiring about Bond’s mission. I wasn’t notified he’d be leaving and I wanted to make sure I hadn’t missed something.”

“You didn’t. We assigned R to Bond’s case.”

Q’s stomach bottoms out and he sits up straighter, pressing the phone more firmly against his ear. “Oh, I- Did I do something, sir? I always-”

“Q, you requested to be removed from Bond’s missions a week or so ago, don’t you remember?”

Q deflates in his chair as the memory comes rushing back to him; he, Moneypenny, and Mallory had spent nearly forty minutes debating who Bond would be reassigned to if not to Q. It had been after the Eiffel tower incident and Q had been flustered and concerned the complications of feelings - his feelings to be exact - would get in the way.

That was what had gotten Q stuck in this web in the first place.

Asking for Bond to be reassigned had seemed the most plausible solution at the time.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I remember.”

“Settled then?”

“Yes, sir. All settled.”

The click of Mallory signing off sounds in Q’s ear, but it’s a long time before he returns his receiver to its cradle.

It’s nearly 3 am when Q stumbles into Q branch less than 24 hours later. There isn’t anything for him to do there - not at this hour - but sleep was futile when he knew Bond was out on a mission without him.

R is slumped in her chair at the head of Q branch, eyes glazed over as she stares at the screen in front of her. She looks up when Q approaches.

“Q.” Her expression is confused, as it should be, and Q offers her a placating smile.

“Long day?” he asks, pulling up a seat next to her.

R sighs, stretches her arms above her head and settles back into her chair on a heavy exhale. “He’s deplorable, Q. He’s been drinking since 23:00.”

Q huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Sounds like him.”

“At least there hasn’t been a woman yet.”

Q keeps his face a mask of indifference, though he spins that information round and round in his brain. Usually Bond finds a warm body within the first few hours of his mission, it’s just part of the routine; almost as if he made up a checklist when he first got into the field and hasn’t stopped adding ticks to the boxes since.

“At least there’s that,” Q responds.

R nods. “Mmmmmm.”

For a moment it’s silent. R’s attention is drawn towards the harsh light of her tablet and Q searches for a delicate way to let her know he’s come to take over. He may have asked Mallory for reassignment, but it turns out not working with Bond is worse than working with him.

“So did you come to supervise? Or are you sending me home?” R flicks knowing eyes at Q, bottomless brown and edged with fatigue.

“You don’t need me here,” He points out. Perhaps she’ll surrender and go home herself.

“You’re right, I don’t. Yet here you are.”

“You might have a point there.”

After a beat R sighs. She pulls the radio out of her ear and holds it out for Q to take. “He prefers you anyway,” She says.

“Though I’m still trying to figure out why,” Q admits. He accepts the radio gratefully and watches R stand. She stretches once more before bending to collect her things.

“You may be, but no one else is.”

Q frowns. “What do you mean?”

R’s bag is slung over her shoulder now and she looks so harmless in her rumpled black Oxford sweater and powder blue button up; nothing like the girl who transferred in from the Phillipines and made it very clear she was interested in climbing the MI6 ladder as quickly as possible. She smiles at him, something sympathetic, and turns to head for the door. “Goodnight, Q,” She tosses over her shoulder.

“Goodnight.”

When Q’s radio is secure, all he hears over the comm is Bond’s deep, even breathing. He must have passed out for the night, succumbing to an alcohol induced sleep. Q only hopes the double-oh had the sense to at least put on some pyjamas.

He’s had three cups of tea by the time Bond chimes in a few hours later. His voice crackles at first, but is clear after Q adjusts a setting on his end of the comms.

“R,” Bond says.

“No, Q.”

Bond is silent for a moment, and in his mind’s eye Q can see him working things out. “Q,” Bond repeats.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Wasn’t as easy to get rid of me as you’d thought, eh?”

Q blows out a sigh. “I wasn’t trying to get rid of you,” he lies, tinkering with the maps on his screen. He closes one window and opens another until he can see Bond in the form of a blinking green light. “I just thought you’d like a change of scenery.”

“You were wrong,” Bond responds. The smile in his voice has Q smiling too.

*

When the mission is over and Bond is back on London soil he breezes into Q’s office with a few boxes in hand and a devil-may-care grin on his face. Q pauses in typing a sharp response to the head of his least favorite department to glance up at the man.

“Bond,” he greets. His eyes are back on his computer screen in an instant and he hears rather than sees the agent come round the side of his desk and perch himself on the corner.

“Did you miss me?”, Bond questions.

Q purses his lips. “How could I miss you, Double-Oh, you were in my head for a week.”

“I missed you, too.”

Q fires off his email and flips his laptop shut, glaring up at Bond and ignoring the smile that grows on the man’s face when he sees the Eiffel tower situated just to the side of a photo of Q’s cats.

“How can I help you, Bond.”

Bond holds up a gift bag. “I brought you something.”

“Is it a mini replica of the Museum of Broken Relationships?” Q chuckles at his own horrible joke, face falling when he finds Bond peering at him curiously.

“Chocolate,” Bond says and produces a brown box with tan stripes that form a diagonal pattern from the top right hand corner and move downwards. “ _Bajadera_ ,” he says, sliding the the box across the desk towards Q.

Q keeps his hands clasped in his lap. “Oh. Um, thank you.” He doesn’t dare reach out, fearing Bond will notice the fidgety manner of his hands.

Their gazes meet and neither of them speak. Q traces the lines of Bond’s face with his eyes, wondering how many of them exist because of age and how many were gained by having been a field agent for the better part of his life. His fingers curl around the pleated fronts of his flannel trousers, the only thing keeping him from reaching out to touch.

Bond looks down, takes one of Q’s hands in his own and brings the knuckles to his mouth. “Do you dance?” He wonders, lips warm on Q’s skin.

Q can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, a furious tattoo pounding against his chest. “Do- do I- what?” He stumbles over the words, Bond’s question only partially registering in his brain, his whole focus honed in on the soft glide of Bond’s finger over the thin stretch of skin covering the veins in Q’s wrist.

“Dance,” Bond repeats. He turns Q’s hand over, presses his lips to where his fingers just were, and Q sits helpless in his chair, pulse jumping and belly rolling nervously. He might actually be sick all over Bond’s neatly polished shoes.

His mind is a tangle of thoughts, flickers of what a generous lover Bond had been, the way he’d pressed Q into the sheets with gentle hands and muttered praises into his ear. _“You do quite a bit of taking care of me, Q. Now let me take care of you.”_

The man might be an arse wandering through the halls of MI6, but in the quiet confines of Q’s bedroom he’d been nothing but a gentleman.

“Not in a while,” Q finally manages. Bond hums, moving to kiss the tips of Q’s fingers.

“I’m quite fond of your hands,” he mutters. “Fiercely delicate, aren’t they? No one would know just by looking at them the things they’ve done; the masterpieces they’ve created, the organisations they’ve destroyed.” Bond’s eyes flick to meet Q’s. “ _Beautiful_ ,” he murmurs.

“I think I need to sit,” Q says.

Bond chuckles. “You are sitting.”

Q nods, swallows hard. “Right.”

Bond opens his mouth to speak again, but is interrupted by the grating sound of someone clearing their throat. Q bolts out of his seat, wrenching his hand from Bond’s grasp and running shaky fingers down his shirt front and trousers. Bond stays put, smirking.

“Am I interrupting something?”, Moneypenny’s arms are folded across her chest, one eyebrow cocked in amusement.

“No,” Q stammers at the same time Bond says, “Actually-”

“ _No_ ,” Q says again, voice more firm. “Nothing. What is it, Eve?”

Moneypenny holds up a stack of olive green folders. “These need your approval,” she says, “but it can wait if you-”

Q crosses his office and pulls the folders from Moneypenny’s grasp. “No need,” he tells her, flicking open the topmost folder and scanning the first page. “I can do it now.” He turns from her and goes back to his desk, nose firmly buried in the requests. He can feel Bond’s eyes on him, but Q does not look up.

“How was Croatia?”, Moneypenny wonders. She’s standing just inside the office now.

Bond stands and adjusts his suit coat. “Trifling the first day, vivid the rest.”

Q stops reading, but keeps his eyes on the page. Surely Bond knows Q is listening, otherwise why the need for such a definition?

Moneypenny says, “You have all the fun,” and Bond nods.

“I do.” He turns to Q. “Did you need anything else from me Quartermaster?”

Q opens another folder despite not having actually read anything in the previous folders. “No, Mr. Bond. That will be all.” He says the words to the black lettering before him and waits for Bond to leave the room.

Bond taps the gift bag still on Q’s desk. “Also for you,” he says.

Q blinks up at him and wishes he hadn’t as just seeing the man’s face is enough to make him feel like his insides are on fire. “Thank you,” is his curt reply.

Bond smiles and finally leaves the room. Moneypenny, however, does not.

Her heels click across the floor as she comes to rest just on the other side of Q’s desk, lowering herself into one of the chairs and resting her elbows on the flat surface in front of her. “Bajadera,” she says.

“Hmmmm?” Q looks at her, shuffling the folders still in his hands and setting them down on the desk.

Moneypenny points to the box of chocolates. “He brought you chocolate.”

Q spares a glance at the sweets. “Yes, he did.”

Moneypenny’s smile is wide. “How’d you do it, Q?”

“Do what.”

“Woo him.”

Q let’s out a hefty breath of air and slumps deeper into his chair. The leather is cool against his neck and back, welcome against his overheated skin. “I haven’t done anything of the sort. He’s just looking for another shag.”

“I don’t think so.” Moneypenny reaches for the box of chocolates and slides the top off, picking up a piece and tossing it in her mouth. She closes her eyes as she chews, humming her approval.

“What do you mean.”

“If that’s all he’s looking for, why all the effort?” She chooses another piece of chocolate, pushes the box towards, Q. Q shakes his head.

“You and I both know he has a thing for theatrics. He’s highly trained in the art of espionage and seduction. That’s all this is, Eve. Seduction.”

Moneypenny shrugs. She closes the box of chocolates and stands. “Maybe so,” she says. “But what if it isn’t? What’s the harm in finding out?”

Q pushes the folders Eve brought into a neat pile, one stacked precisely atop the other. He straightens his Eiffel tower as well and the picture beside it, avoiding Moneypenny’s gaze for as long as he can.

“The harm is,” he finally says, his voice pitched low, “me, getting mixed up with Bond, and being left to pick up the pieces of myself when he moves on to the next person that intrigues him more than I do. His fascination won’t last forever Miss Moneypenny. You know that as well as anybody.”

Eve doesn’t need to respond, her eyes say it all: sympathy, understanding. After a beat, Q nods once and Moneypenny moves towards the door, pausing only when she reaches the doorway. “For the record,” she says, a smile back in her voice, “I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

Q looks up, considers a response, but Moneypenny is already gone.

Q waits until he’s in the privacy of his own flat to open the second gift from Bond. He’s planted on the sofa, evening tea steeping in the kitchen, and the television flaring to life in front of him. Q pulls a simple black box out of the gift bag, bulkier than the box of chocolates, but still small in size, and tugs off the lid. Inside is a gold embossed card with the words [_Obožavam te_](https://translate.google.com/#en/hr/I%20adore%20you.) scrawled carefully down the middle.

Q lifts the card and finds a single, glass spun rose nestled in the folds of black velvet.

 _Seduction_ , he tells himself. _That’s all this is. Seduction._

*

Q shuffles into the Costa Coffee and pulls the woven beanie from his head, shaking off flakes of snow and stuffing it into the front pocket of his anorak. After he orders his tea, Q holes himself up in a quiet corner and pulls out his tablet, scrolling through work emails and conveniently leaving the ones from his mother left unread. He’ll get to them later.

He’s just wrapping stiff hands around his steaming drink when Bond appears with a coffee in hand.

Q sighs, dejected. “I’m beginning to think you need a hobby,” he drawls when Bond takes up the seat across from him.

“Antagonizing you is a hobby,” Bond retorts. He takes a careful sip of his coffee, watching Q over the rim of his cup. “I like to see you vexed.”

Against his better judgement Q takes the bait. “Why,” he bites out, eyes searing. Bond smiles.

“It excites me,” The double-oh admits.

Q shakes his head. “Shooting things excites you. Perhaps you should spend more time in the range.”

Bond chuckles. “Not the same sort of excitement, I’m afraid.”

“Pitty.” Q averts his gaze from Bond’s, the tablet in his lap absorbing his attention once more, and Q hopes that that will be all, that Bond will take a hint and leave.

But Bond does neither of those things. Instead he sits, with that daunting smirk plastered on his face, and watches Q with delighted, calculating eyes. Q tries to ignore the other man, he really does, but when he finds himself re-reading the same sentence for a fourth time, his patience withers.

“What is it you want, Bond?”, He’s exasperated to say the least, and people are staring, but he doesn’t give a damn at this point.

“A date,” Bond says.

“A date,” Q repeats.

“Yes, a date.”

“I’m not interested in another shag, if that’s what this is about. I acted regretfully out of character that night and it won’t happen again. My judgement was impaired by your uncanny ability to know exactly what I needed to hear and far too much tequila.”

“Q,” Bond says, his lips quirking up into a smile. “I just want to take you dancing.”

“You what?”

“I’m due back from the West Indies on the 9th. I’ll pick you up at six. Find something nice to wear. And for god’s sake, comb your hair.” The double-oh gains his feet then and leaves the Costa Coffee. Q is still sputtering even after Bond has left. He trails his fingers along one of the unruly curls atop his head.

There’s nothing but empty space in front of him, but he can’t help but ask again, “What?”

*

They go dancing. And to dinner. And even for a walk around Hyde Park long after the sun has dipped below the horizon and everything has turned to shadow and frost. The sky is scattered with stars and they huddle close together as they walk and it’s just the sort of date Q would want from an actual lover. But then Bond is Bond and Q is Q and there’s still that wedge of doubt in Q’s mind that tells him this can only end one way.

Bond is not looking for a lover. He’s looking for one more night.

So Q invites Bond back to his flat, because the longer this drags on the harder it will be to recover from. If Bond wants one more night, that is what Q will give him.

They sit in loaded silence on the way back to Q’s. Q wrings his hands until Bond reaches across the back seat of the cab and clasps one in his grasp, sliding their fingers together and settling their joined hands on the seat between them. Despite his disappointment that Bond actually agreed to accompany Q back to his flat, the gesture settles Q nonetheless.

 _Damn you, Bond._ He thinks for the millionth time.

Inside the flat Wysiwyg and Codec are waiting for him by the doorway just as always. They weave around his feet as he welcomes Bond inside and scatter when they realize Q is not alone. Codec pokes her head from around the corner and eyes Bond reproachfully.

“I don’t think they like me much,” Bond laughs while Q hangs their coats.

“They’ll warm up to you,” Q offers, though it’s an outright lie because after tonight Bond’s sure to never step foot in Q’s flat again.

For a moment Bond just stands in the entryway, eyes roaming over every piece of furniture and art Q has, something like approval, or maybe understanding settling over his features.

It’s unnerving how much the double-oh doesn’t look out of place in Q’s space.

“Coffee?” Q asks, because he needs a moment to himself. Bond’s hand finds Q’s waist and he tugs Q in, presses their lips together. It’s chaste, and soft, and Q’s breath catches in his throat. He waits for Bond to move in again, kiss him more incessantly.

He doesn’t. Instead he responds with a quiet, “Sure.”

Q hurries off to the kitchen.

When he returns, Bond has sat himself on the sofa. He’s settled deep in the cushions, his legs spread wide, and he looks comfortable. Content. Q walks towards him, hefting his thumb over his shoulder.

“I’ve put the coffee on,” he states.

Bond smiles. “Alright.” He watches intently as Q comes to stand before him, hesitates briefly, then climbs into Bond’s lap and straddles his waist. His hands are sure on Q’s hips, warm through the thin fabric of Q’s dinner shirt.

“Hello,” Q whispers, moving in until there’s nothing but a scant few inches between them.

Bond’s lips quirk up at the corners. “Hello.”

Q moves in, can feel Bond’s breath on his lips. He waits for Bond to close the gap, and when he doesn’t, Q does so himself, kissing Bond like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do in his life.

Bond responds by sliding one hand into the waves on Q’s head and pressing gently until they’re that much closer. Q lets his weight rest fully on Bond’s thighs.

When he needs a moment to breathe, Q pulls away, moves his mouth to the column of the double-oh’s neck and leaves a trail of open mouthed kisses all the way down to the open collar of Bond’s white button down. Q’s body begins to respond, just as Bond’s does, as he kisses the hollow of Bond’s throat and slides his hands until they’re fiddling with Bond’s belt buckle.

That is where Bond stops him.

“Not tonight,” Bond says softly.

Q looks up, searches Bond’s eyes for an explanation. “What?”

“You heard me, Quartermaster. Not tonight.”

“But I thought that’s what you-”

Bond takes Q’s hands in his own. Brings them to his lips and kisses each one with a kiss so light it’s really more of a whisper than a kiss at all. “You were mistaken.”

Q shakes his head, furrows his brow. “You jest, Double-Oh.”

“No,” Bond says. “I’m quite serious. That isn’t what I want.”

Heat creeps up Q’s neck, coloring his cheeks, and his whole body quivers with the surge of conflicting emotions washing over him. _Seduction, that’s all._ “Then what?”, he finally wonders.

Bond’s hand falls lightly on Q’s cheek. “I want time,” he says, and when Q’s frown does not slip away, he continues. “I want my lips on your neck in the cab home after dinner at _Le Gavroche_. I want to listen to you complain about having to wear a tux to a benefit for Six agents, and to peel you out of it at the end of night. I want breakfast with you in the mornings, and mindless telly with you on my weekends off. I want your eyes to find mine across the corridors at Six and hold that sparkle I know is meant just for me. I want your warm body in my arms at night, and your lips on mine when the sun rises. I want your cats to warm up to me.”

Q’s eyes fall shut as Bond brushes a lock of hair back from Q’s forehead. “ _You_ , Q. I want _you_.”

“You hardly know me,” Q counters. The attempt is unavailing, but Q makes it anyway. They may not know what one another’s favorite colours are, but after all the missions they’ve worked together and the time spent bumping shoulders at MI6, they’ve come to know each other more intimately than Q knows just about anyone else Q.

“Are you saying you don’t want the same?” Bond asks.

Q bites at his bottom lip, a nervous habit he thought he’d kicked long ago. “I’m saying- why me?”

Bond’s hands are holding Q’s face now, his palms soft and steady on Q’s jaw. “Why _not_ you?” he asks.

Q doesn’t want to accept the answer, but he does. “And after you’ve had it all. What will you want then?”

Bond draws Q in, kisses him like he would physically hand Q his beating heart if it would prove how he felt inside. “Still you.” Bond says. “Always you.”

Q doesn’t realize there are tears on his cheeks until Bond is brushing them away.

*

EPILOGUE

When Moneypenny carries in a bouquet of flowers spilling out of a pewter vase, Q can hardly see her around all the extravagance. The arrangement is mostly a burst of bold  orange colours, tiger lilies, and miracle roses, and a few smaller, more dainty flowers making up the rest of it, but what catches Q’s eyes are the pops of white strewn throughout.

Paper cranes.  

Eve looks ruffled when she sets the whole ordeal down on Q’s desk.

“Why am I still doing this man’s bidding?” She asks, falling into the nearest chair.

“You did shoot him,” Q points out, sending off an email to R and closing his computer. He touches one of the petals, velvety soft, and pulls a paper crane out of the bouquet.

Moneypenny frowns. “What are the cranes for?”, she wonders.

Q smiles fondly at the delicate folds of white in his hands. “Paper,” he tells her. “For our one year anniversary.”

“Isn’t that for married couples?”

Q shrugs, and responds. “When has James Bond ever followed the rules.”

“Fair point,” Eve says. She watches silently as Q unfolds the crane in his hands, careful not to rip the paper. Q smiles when he finds what’s written inside.

 _But were I loved, as I desire to be,_  
What is there in the great sphere of the earth,  
And range of evil between death and birth,  
That I should fear if I were loved by thee?  
All the inner, all the outer world of pain  
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine,  
As I have heard that, somewhere in the main,  
Fresh water-springs come up through bitter brine.  
'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee,  
To wait for death mute careless of all ills,  
Apart upon a mountain, though the surge  
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills  
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge  
Below us, as far on as eye could see.

“What’s it say?”

Q folds it back up just as neatly as if it’d never been opened. “It’s the second half of a Tennyson sonnet Bond sent me a year ago. I think he’s just figured out what he first sent wasn’t all there was to the piece.”

Moneypenny’s eyes sparkle as she laughs. “So I was right then, hmmmm?”

Q looks up at her, head cocked to one side. “What do you mean?”

“You did woo James Bond.”

Q’s responding smile is small, pleased. He smooths a finger along the crane again and remembers Bond asking him to call in sick this morning so they could spend the day in bed. “Yes.” He says. “Yes, I suppose I did.”


End file.
